


Fishermen

by louise_lux



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Besotted Hannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, Immediately Post Fall, M/M, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Post Fall, bed sharing, they are in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9124459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: Will and Hannibal have been rescued from the water by an elderly fisherman and his wife. In their small isolated house, Will waits for Hannibal to wake up, and dreads what might happen when he does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Color-division (Romiko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiko/gifts).



The chickens were squawking in the yard. It was a sound that took Will straight back to his boyhood, and it wasn't the only thing here that did that. The small room he was in had peeling white plaster and a rush-seated chair that wobbled, just like their two room shack in Biloxi. It was the only place to sit that wasn't the bed. Limp curtains hung in the narrow window, their floral sprigs long faded. The bathroom was a sink and an outhouse. Everything smelled damp. 

It could have been thirty years ago, except that now, in the single narrow bed, lay Hannibal. He was on his back, ragged coverlet pulled up to his chin, eyes closed and far too pale, but it was better than the fever he'd been running up until last night. He hadn't woken since Steve had pulled them out of the ocean and that'd been three days ago. 

Out in the yard, Mary was scolding the chickens. Through the grimy glass he could see her pegging out towels and sheets. The wind, cold and mean, straight from the sea, caught them and flapped them around her sturdy arms as the birds clucked around her ankles. Mary finished, then turned and trudged back to the house. 

Steve and Mary didn't have any neighbours that Will could see. A battered single lane road ran out front, separating them from the beach. It ran off in either direction, empty. No TV, only an old radio, and that seemed to be permanently off. 

A knock came on the door, just one, and Will looked over at Hannibal. He hadn't stirred. 

"Yes?" he said. 

"I made oatmeal," Mary said through the door. "Come on out." 

Mary's kitchen was small and cosy, warmed by the wood stove, and a contrast to her lugubrious presence. She gestured to the small table and plonked a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and coffee. It was hot enough to burn his tongue, but Will couldn't help but gulp it down. 

"How's your friend?" Mary asked, leaning against the sink. She was a big woman, and Will found it hard to guess her age. Maybe 65, maybe 75. She had good teeth. 

"Still asleep."

"Gut wounds are bad," said Mary. Will wondered how she knew. She stirred cream into her own coffee, and three sugars, and lit a Pall Mall. "He might die."

"He's tough," Will said, and she shrugged. "Where's Steve?" 

Mary blew out a cloud of smoke. "Out at the lobster pots."

"Is that how you make a living out here?"

She gave him an expressionless stare. "Uh huh." 

Steve had a face that gave nothing away, and a level gaze that Will found hard to meet. He'd looked them over as if they'd been half drowned pups, sprawled wet and bleeding on the floor of his boat, and hadn't asked any questions, for which Will had blessed him. Instead he'd got them to land, heaved them into his truck and had brought them to his home. He'd given Hannibal a course of antibiotics intended for dogs, but it seemed to have worked. 

He had tattoos on the wrinkled skin of his forearms, the name of a ship and 'Mary'. Will guessed they must be Korean War era, and that Steve had served over there. PTSD, Will reasoned, probably a hatred of authority, isolated. Sharp, but not willing to ask questions. 

Will forced down his oatmeal even though he had no appetite. Hannibal needed drugs they didn't have. They'd have to leave soon, but how? They had no car, and Steve and Mary had just one truck. Maybe there was a wreck out back that could be jump-started to life, if he could persuade Steve to loan it them. Unlikely, but not impossible. Despite himself, his mind ticked over other alternatives. Steve and Mary were easy targets. Easy to kill. No one would miss them. It would be Hannibal's preferred solution. He stared down at his bowl, appalled at how easily the idea of murder had slithered into his conscious mind.

The oatmeal sat in his stomach like lead, but he forced it down, aware of Mary watching him. 

"He your friend?" she said finally. 

Will looked up at her, startled. She hadn't asked him a single question about Hannibal until now. "Yes, he is." 

"You from the city?" 

He guessed she didn't mean a specific place, for her it was more of a classification. He just shrugged. 

"How'd you get in the water?"

"We were out hunting," Will said. "We took a fall off the bluffs out by Pine Ridge."

"Those bluffs are crumbling. It's a dangerous place to go hunting. Any fool should know that."

"I sure know it now." 

"Is that how he got gut shot? And you got your stabs?" 

"Yeah. We had an accident." He scooped up the last of the oatmeal and faked a huge yawn. Half faked. "You mind if I go back and get some more sleep?" 

She nodded. "You look like you need it."

Will closed the door behind him, blessing her silently. She could've asked a whole raft of awkward questions, like what kind of "accident" ended up in multiple stab wounds and a gunshot wound, but she hadn't. Probably didn't want to know. 

He rubbed his eyes and winced. Most of him hurt. He climbed gingerly into bed next to Hannibal and looked over at his sleeping face. Hannibal would kill them quickly and cleanly. Regretfully, even. An unpleasant necessity. The lure of the idea glowed in his heart. It would be so easy. Hannibal would help. They'd do it together. 

Part of him wanted it, and wasn't that his burden now? Up on the bluffs he'd become exactly the creature Hannibal intended. Glory and trumpets and love all around. He saw again, in lush loving detail that he knew would never fade, Hannibal's teeth close around the Dragon's throat. God, it had been good. 

He jerked upright, sweat beading on his brow, stomach aching, then flung open the window just in time for the oatmeal to escape. He heaved several times, his fingers white knots on the windowsill. The bile burnt his cheek wound and he stifled a cry. 

"No," he swore. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass. "No."

He drank water from the tiny basin in the corner and wiped off the sweat with the thin small towel that hung on the back of the door, then walked over to the bed. Hannibal looked peaceful, his face slackened in sleep, his brow smooth, lips sweetly parted.

It'd be a moment's work to smother him with a pillow, but, even as he thought it, nausea rose again. He reach out to brush away a flake of blood still stuck to Hannibal's cheek with shaking fingers. His skin was healthily warm now, and his breathing was slow and steady. He would wake soon. 

It was as if the truth hit Will, right at that moment, and dizziness washed over him. It was all real, it was all true, it wasn't some sort of purgatory. This wasn't a dream, or even a nightmare, this room, this strange little house and the old couple, and Hannibal alive and with him. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. "Fuck. We really are alive."

Hannibal had wanted a reflection, but Will wasn't going to be that. If anyone was going to change from here on out, he decided, it was going to be Hannibal. 

*

"Will," Hannibal said, in his ear, very close, very low and very urgent. "Will?"

Will came awake instantly, his heart in his throat. There was a tight band around Will's arm, which he realised was Hannibal's hand. His grip was incredibly strong, on the edge of pain. Will gasped. He reached out and caught Hannibal's arm. "It's me, I'm here. You're with me."

"Are we alive?" Hannibal's voice sounded wrong, slow and slurred, and Will realised he must only be half awake, maybe even still dreaming. His heart skipped a beat. 

"You're safe, Hannibal. You're with me." It was so dark that he couldn't see Hannibal's face at all. He must've slept all day. All he had was that voice, and the sound of his harsh breathing. He stroked Hannibal's arm, a long touch up and down, trying to sooth, and felt the grip on him tremble. "It's Will. We're alive." 

"Will?" Hannibal's voice was sharper and clearer now, as if this was the moment he'd actually woken. There came a small breath of delighted laughter. 

Will wanted more than anything to be able to see Hannibal's face. "I'm here. I'm with you." 

Will found himself in a breathless state, suddenly, smiling madly in the dark, allowing himself to feel the crazy joy of what they'd done, and what they'd survived. Their hands tightened on each other. 

"The last thing I remember is hitting the water." Hannibal coughed and made a small grunt of pain.

"Me too. Like hitting a wall." 

Hannibal drew in a breath. "I was ready to die. To let you have your way. I wanted what you wanted in that moment." 

Such a soft aching confession, given so freely. "I know." 

They lay silently for a little while, their words knitting between them into something living and warm. Soon, Will heard Hannibal's breathing even out and knew that he was asleep again.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal was still asleep when Will woke, but he had rolled closer to Will as they slept, or Will had rolled closer to him. Perhaps both. The result was that Hannibal was stretched out at his back, their legs tangled, and the bed was very warm. Will closed his eyes again and remembered Hannibal's soft words in the dark, and how they had made Will's stomach flutter, cast like tiny darts straight into him.

He lay very still, listening to Hannibal's soft breathing and feeling the lax press of his limbs, warm and trusting like one of his dogs. The thought made his breath come short, and he pressed his face into the pillow. Hannibal would want to kill Steve and Mary. He'd want to cover their tracks beyond any doubt. He wouldn't want to be caught again.

Through the wall, he heard the squeak of the front door opening and the thud of it closing, then Steve's low rumble and Mary's slightly higher one. Will couldn't work out what they were saying, but whatever it was it was pretty much monosyllabic. They were the sort of exchanges he remembered with his dad, about tides, weather, breakfast, school. His dad had only ever got garrulous about engines and football.

A skillet scraped loudly on the hob, and soon after the smell of bacon began to drift into the room, along with coffee and toast. His stomach gurgled. He'd eaten nothing but the oatmeal yesterday, and that hadn't stayed down very long. The small white plastic clock on the dresser told him it was 7.35am. He turned a little and studied Hannibal's sleeping face. Yeah, he'd definitely want to kill them.

Quickly, Will pushed aside the heavy quilt and sat up. He shivered in the cold air, and pulled on a thick green wool sweater that had to be one of Steve's. It smelled heavily of engine oil and lanolin. Just as he got his feet into his boots, and was wondering what the hell to do, there was a tap at the door.

"Breakfast," Mary said gruffly.

"Hannibal," he said softly. Hannibal didn't stir.

The kitchen was warm, and the air was thick with cooking smells. Steve sat at the formica-topped kitchen table with a bacon sandwich and a mug of coffee. At the door sat a collie with a white muzzle and black feet. Steve saw him looking.

"That's Patty," he said. "C'mere girl." He held out a sliver of bacon rind, and Patty trotted over and swallowed it on one gulp.

"Hey," Will said, and bent down to her. She licked his hand and wagged her tail. "She's great," he said. "Does she go out on the boat with you?"

"Oh yeah. Can't keep her away. You like dogs?" Steve said.

He was watching Will closely, maybe too closely. Had he heard something? Were the police on their way? He fought down panic that tasted like bile and tried to think of a sane way out of this situation.

"Yeah. I used to rehome strays. Kept the ones no one wanted."

Steve grunted approvingly, and Mary walked over with a plate of food. He noticed for the first time that her knuckles and joints were distorted with the swellings of rheumatoid arthritis. "Got one for sleeping beauty in there too," she said. She paused, maybe waiting for Will to supply a name.

"Thanks. He's still sleeping."

Mary and Steve shared a look that Will did his best to ignore. He dug into his food, chewing carefully, and studied the room. A few Sudoku and crossword books stood racked up on a shelf near the window, along with a row of well thumbed paperbacks, mostly detective novels. He guessed they were Mary's. On the dresser by the bedroom door stood a half drunk bottle of scotch, the cheap gut-rot stuff. A box of diabetic medication stood next to it.

They were old, easy targets. He swallowed down his bacon and drank his coffee. Steve lit up a cigarette and sat back in his chair.

"You'll be needing to get gone soon," he said, meeting Will's eyes with a sharp flick of a gaze. It wasn't a question.

"Soon," Will said, trying his best to sound reassuring. He wanted to tell Steve that he be here even less than Steve. "Maybe even today."

Hannibal would tell him it would be merciful to kill them, better a quick death than the pain and soiled bedsheets of old age. They would go together. They might well be grateful.

"How's the weather out there?" Will said, just to quiet Hannibal's voice in his head.

"Pretty shit," Steve said. "There's a storm building." He looked over at Mary, at her poor deformed knuckles. "You feel it?"

She nodded, then turned away and began running water in the sink. Steve stood went over to her, gently moved her to one side and began washing the dishes himself. Silently, she glanced over at Will, then trudged slowly into what must be their bedroom and closed the door behind her.

"It's been bad for her for a few years," Steve said, when he came to sit back down. "She never complains."

"We can learn to put up with just about anything, given long enough," Will said.

"Sound like you're talking from experience."

Will said nothing. Steve gave him an uncomfortable glance. "Look, I can give you boys a ride to the hospital. Airport, somewhere." He cleared his throat. "Your, uh, friend, doesn't look the tough kind if you know what I mean. City boy. I don't judge, but you must've gotten yourself into some trouble up there on the bluffs. Stupid thing to do, if you don't mind my saying."

Relief unfurled in Will's chest, and a flare of hope. God, please. If that's all Steve thought they were, effeminate greenhorns who'd made some stupid mistakes, that was fine. Will could use that. He nodded, as if agreeing, and sounded out a lie that didn't feel too much of a distortion. He didn't want to lie to these people. "My friend, he takes risks and we just… met the wrong people out there. They attacked us, took our things."

"You two, uh, live together?"

Will swallowed down a wry laugh. "We're moving in together, yeah."

Steve's eyes softened at the corners. They sat in silence for a little while.

"How'd you get by out here?" Will asked.

"It's hard, but it's better than the city," he said. "We lived in Norfolk with Mary's pa after I got back from Korea. That man was one evil bastard. Only let her eat once a day. I broke his jaw when I found out. That was the day I got back. So we left pretty quick, moved out here. Life's not easy, but the space makes up for a lot." He gave Will a quick twisted smile.

"No kids?"

"I couldn't. So nope."

Will nodded. Truly alone. "I appreciate the offer of a ride, but I don't want to put you out. Have you got a vehicle we could maybe… borrow?"

Steve crinkled his forehead. "Borrow?"

"We left most of our camping gear behind, ID, stuff like that. I want to go back and see if it's still there, and report it to the local police."

Steve recoiled slightly at the mention of the police, as Will had hoped. "You'll be lucky." Steve stood up and creaked over the dressed and pulled open a drawer. He took out an old red leather key fob with a single key dangling from it. "There's a pickup in the barn with four flats and a cracked exhaust. If you can get it going, you can have it."

*

Hannibal was awake when Will went back into their room. Their eyes met instantly.

"Where are we?" Hannibal said.

"South of your place. Maybe ten miles."

"Somewhere around Cook's Bank, then," said Hannibal. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"A little more than 48 hours."

"We need to leave immediately." He sat up carefully, hand over his stomach, and Will approached the bed, tension knotting his stomach. Hannibal glanced at the door. "Who are they?"

"Hannibal. It's okay. They don't suspect us, and I'm pretty certain we can leave before they do."

Hannibal grimaced. "They don't suspect? Then who do they think we are?"

"They think we're city boys out on a trip who got beat up and robbed."

Hannibal blinked. "That lie won't hold, you must know that." He looked up at Will from under his brows. "Are you expecting me to do the dirty work?"

"Is that seriously your answer to everything?"

Hannibal gave Will a faint smile that slipped into another grimace as he swung his legs out of bed. Someone, probably Steve while they were both unconscious, had jammed thick woollen socks onto his feet, and now they sagged around his ankles. "Not always, but it's my answer to this. How can I do anything else? We cannot let them live."

"Don't. We'll leave." Will came nearer, his heart thumping. "What's difficult about that?"

Hannibal shook his head. He looked up at Will almost pleadingly. His eyes grew dark, pupils expanding reflexively, and Will noted it with a satisfaction that he couldn't deny. "The stakes are too high. My freedom." He dropped his head. "Yours."

"Are you so concerned about mine?" Will stared down at him, at the tense bow of his shoulders and the line of his bare neck.

"Without it, my own is meaningless."

"When did you figure that out?"

Hannibal raised his face to look at Will. His gaze was unflinching. "Truly? When I first saw you in the Capella Palatina."

"Hannibal," Will said, and touched his shoulder with fingers that shook. He watched them as if they belonged to someone else. "You know I can't let you kill them."

"How do you think you'll stop me? Is this where you tell me you've called Jack after all?"

"No, I haven't. I won't. I want us away from here as much as you do. Just don't kill them."

"They're old. They're ailing. Killing them would be a mercy."

"Let's not forget self-serving," Will said.

Hannibal rose. "I'm not willing to be caught again." He stepped past Will to the door, smooth and fast.

"Hannibal, stop." He only just wedged himself against the door before Hannibal could open it. The room beyond was silent, and Will wondered if Steve was sitting at the rickety table, trying to make sense of the muted fall and rise of their voices and the scuffle of feet on bare boards. Could he hear? Will hoped not. With any luck he'd never realise the content of their conversation. Maybe he thought it was a lover's tiff.

"Will, please move out of my way."

Will shoved him back, hard, and Hannibal staggered back with a very interesting ease. "Why, will you hurt me if I don't? Is that how it's going to be between us? Still?"

Hannibal scowled, hand pressed to his stomach. "Not at all. I've no wish to hurt you, quite the opposite, but wilful self-destruction isn't really my thing, and you may fool yourself all you like, but I don't believe you want that either."

Will's head had begun to ache with a sick pulse. He leaned back against the door, guarding it. Outside, the wind was rising, and it whistled a mindless note as it ran round the chimney. "I don't know what I want."

"That is abundantly clear."

"But I want to make a bargain," he said. He'd thought about it while he lay aching and sick next to Hannibal their first night here, and it had seemed more like a fever-induced fantasy at the time. He could barely see ten minutes into their future, and it was impossible to imagine a week, or a month, or a year from now. "I don't want us to get caught. Or separated. We can be together. I'll... I'll stay with you. Just don't kill them."

Hannibal became very still. "And if I refuse?" he said. "Can we parley terms?"

Will shook his head, a heavy roll from side to side. "There's nothing else on the table."

"But you have played your full hand. The stakes are high now, but they may get much higher in future. What else will you have left to bargain with?"

"I guess I'd find out," Will said.

Hannibal gazed at him. He smelled of salt and iron and damp wool, but a glittering energy seemed to radiate from him now. His limbs were more poised, his eyes wider, his mouth firmer. He was excited by the terms, that was clear. Excited by the possibilities, and his pleasure sparked an answering emotion in Will. "If we're merciful and let them live, what then?"

Will shrugged. "We run, just like we would if they were dead."

"Just walk out of the door? Wave goodbye politely and take their car while they're not looking?"

"No, I'm going to fix the truck in the barn."

"That could take days. And if Jack comes looking, as he certainly will, we will be here waiting."

"It'll take them a while to check everywhere on the coast," Will said. "If they even bother. Who's to say there's a manhunt? Jack might have written us off as dead. Wouldn't you? He might change his mind if their corpses turn up."

Hannibal shook his head and smiled. "You'll leave me if I kill them, but that's not the whole truth, is it, Will? You don't want it to wake the beast in your belly."

Will didn't move from the door. He swallowed hard, fear rising as he thought of what he must look like; something pale and trembling to be teased and played with. "It's already awake, you saw to that, too," he said. He met Hannibal's gaze. "That's the deal."

He was banking everything on the one thing he'd chosen not to see for so long: that Hannibal loved him. Right now, with such an egregious choice before them, it seemed fatally unlikely to be enough.

But Hannibal just grinned, somehow freer and wilder than before. "You don't make it easy," he said. "If you stay with me, it will be hard for me to be good."

"What does being good look like, for you?" Will said, when he could speak again.

Hannibal came at him again, fast this time, and determined. Will realised what was coming just before it arrived, and managed to lurch downwards. Hannibal's blow, meant to knock him unconscious, missed, and Hannibal staggered forward, off balance.

"Fuck," Will growled, and caught Hannibal around the waist. He barrelled him back onto the bed, his shoulder shrieking. "Stop." It was surprisingly easy to pin him. Determined though he was, Hannibal had no strength for a fight. Will held him down hard, enough to make Hannibal wince and squirm. "Do you even know what 'behaving' means?" Will panted.

Hannibal turned his face away and closed his eyes. "The salmon always struggles, even when it's in the bear's jaw."

"Oh, please."

Hannibal didn't speak again for a few moments, but Will felt the tension drain from his muscles. He became aware of how close their bodies were, limb pressed to limb, like lovers. He lifted himself up a little, enough so that he wasn't crushing Hannibal's wound.

"I have nothing to bargain with. You know that." Hannibal spoke so softly that Will almost missed it. "You are relying on it."

"Promise me you won't hurt them," Will said. He was still digging his fingers into Hannibal's shoulders. "Promise."

Hannibal gave him a look. "I promise."

Hannibal's skin was flushed with the struggle and he was breathing heavily. The air held a tang of iron and ozone, the scent of blood on a beach. Energy buzzed under his fingertips like electricity, and Will pushed himself up and back, and walked quickly to the other side of the room. His heart was thumping hard.

"I'm going out back to check out Steve's toolshed. Mary's arthritis is bad today." He smoothed down his own hair and tried to steady his breathing. Hannibal watched him from the bed, dark eyed, and Will had to look away quickly. He wanted them to be far away from here, somewhere safe and alone, so strongly that it was a physical ache. They had things they needed to sort out between them that needed space and seclusion. Instead he made himself speak. "They could probably do with some help around the place."

He left Hannibal silently sitting on the bed, still staring at him.


	3. Chapter 3

The truck wasn't as bad as he'd feared, but it still took him almost the rest of the morning to get it up on blocks and to get the old wheel rims off, the bolts were rusted so hard. He nearly crushed his left thumb changing the final wheel, and all the while his nerves were jangling at the thought of Hannibal alone in there. He must've looked in through the window 100 damn times. Through it he could see Hannibal at the sink, then the stove, and then he saw Mary reappear. They appeared to be talking. Mary actually cracked a smile. 

Will had to walk away for a little while after that and just breathe. Steve had a stack of old tyres sitting at the back of his yard. Standing in front of them and inhaling the sharp wet salt air from the sea brought his dad's voice back so vividly that tears nearly came. His dad would've asked him what the damn hell he thought he was doing running around with a crazy man like Hannibal Lecter, and to put that son of a bitch in jail where he belonged. Will didn't have an answer that made any sense, except that he was mad right alongside Hannibal.

He ploughed on with the truck, even as the wind rose and spatters of rain started to fall. Finally, thank everything, he was able to slide out from under the truck. It was nearly all done. His back ached and his shoulder felt almost numb, and he winced as he moved, but warmth hit him as he opened the back door. Warmth and life. The tiny room swirled with the scents of fresh bread and cinnamon and Mary's cigarette smoke. Hannibal was sitting at the table with Mary, a fresh pot of coffee between them. She looked almost like she might smile again. 

"Hey," Will said, looking between them. 

"There you are," Hannibal said, and gave him a happy little smile. "We were beginning to think you'd abandoned us. Perhaps gone to investigate the lobster pots with Steve." 

"The truck'll be ready to go tomorrow."

"Wonderful news."

Will raised an eyebrow at him and went to wash his hands and face in the tiny bathroom. When he came back, Hannibal was at the stove rattling a skillet. 

"Is that cinnamon toast?" Will said, looking over his shoulder. "I haven't had that since I was a kid." 

"It's good for all ages," Hannibal said. "Cinnamon warms the stomach and the heart. Don't you think so, Mary?" 

"Certainly do." She chewed on a slice. "He's a good little cook, I'll give him that," she said, as Will sat. 

The absurdity of that statement wasn't lost on him, but existing in a swamp of irony was a step up from dealing with Hannibal's threats to kill them. Will smiled, as much as his wound would allow. "Oh, he's that all right."

"I've been telling Mary about my antiquing interests," Hannibal said, setting a plate in front of Will, and then sitting again. He barely gave any sign of physical discomfort, and Will wondered at his stamina. "I travel around regularly, searching for treasure. I am always amazed by what I can find in even the most quotidien environments. You must come to my store one day, Mary. It's such a shame all of my cards were lost." 

Mary gave a throaty laugh. "I won't be leaving this place in a hurry. Antiques aren't my kinda thing. Just looks like a load of shit to me." She took a drag of her cigarette and nodded graciously. "Sorry. But thanks for the invite. Hope your store does okay."

Hannibal smiled at her, as warmly as a beloved nephew.

Will listened to Hannibal talk with a sense of relief. This was okay. They'd be gone tomorrow, and then… He wasn't sure after that, but being away from here was a start. He picked up his toast and ate it, and almost groaned at the perfect blend of butter and sugar and cinnamon. The bread was soft and rich. Hannibal had made it for them, and made it as well as he could. Admittedly, if only for his own vanity and need for perfection and control. But once he chose to do something, he did it as well as he was able. 

Will stared down at the toast in his hand and thought of the ortolans. Hannibal had revealed something of himself that night, something Will had only half understood at the time: his loneliness and his desire to be seen as he really was. He'd let Will watch him eat that bird, lips parted, chin raised, eyes closed, not hiding the fluttering uncontrollable pleasure as he chewed. He'd given everything to that shared moment.

"We'll be leaving tomorrow," Will said, breaking into a lengthy description of Boston's antiquing scene. Hannibal raised his brows. Despite his smiles and his bonhomie, he looked decidedly relieved. 

So did Mary, and later that evening, so did Steve. 

*

Will went back out after dinner (stew made with a fat sea bream, cooked by Hannibal and overseen by Mary) and worked till his shoulder felt numb and cold, and pain buzzed up and down his bones like a swarm of wasps. The wind had grown stronger, and far in the distance, way out to sea, lightning had begun to flicker against the black sky.

His reward, just as rain began to fall in earnest, was the sound of the truck's engine coughing into life with a smoky roar. Steve had let him rig up a rusted floodlight, and now he stood and watched Will work, hunched against the rain, his cigarette smoke whirling into the cold wind. 

"Never thought you'd get her goin'," he said. "You're way more handy than you look." 

"Thanks, I think," Will said, and his smile felt good and real. 

They went in, and Steve bade him goodnight. Will stood at the sink and scrubbed as much of the engine oil off as he could, slathering detergent over his shaking fingers. He could barely move his arm now. He'd have to do something about that at some point, maybe with Hannibal's help. For now, he swallowed down some aspirin and hoped it'd be enough. 

Hannibal was already in bed, a lump under the blankets. He turned his head when Will came in. "How is the truck?" 

"Ready."

Hannibal sat up. "Then let's go now." 

It was tempting. Out in the bay, the first clap of thunder could be heard, a distant grumble. Driving in heavy rain would be dangerous, especially as they were both exhausted. "No. Let's go at first light. With any luck we'll miss the worst of the rain."

"Are you in pain?" Hannibal said, after a moment. 

"Yeah. How about you?" 

"It's tolerable. Let me see." 

Will came over and sat on the bed. He was so tired that, as Hannibal peeled back the bandages and began to clean the wound, Will felt his eyes close. In a daze, he was aware of gentle touches and the scent of disinfectant, but little else. He woke up a little later, just briefly. The blankets were tucked under his chin and Hannibal lay at his side, close and warm. His eyes were open and he was watching Will. 

"You should sleep too," Will said.

"No," Hannibal said gently. "You should." He blinked slowly. "I'm keeping watch."

Will sank into sleep like a stone. 

*

Hannibal woke him the next morning with a hand on his good shoulder. Rain was dashing against the window so hard that it sounded like someone throwing a handful of pebbles against the glass. Wind moaned around the house like a ghoul. All Will wanted to do was sleep, preferably for another twenty four hours. 

"Will," Hannibal said. He was already fully dressed and bright eyed, with a determined air to him that usually presaged trouble for someone.

"How do you do that?" Will mumbled.

"What?" 

"Look like you've had a whole night's sleep when I know you haven't." 

"Practise," Hannibal said. He straightened up and glanced at the door. The teakettle was whistling in the kitchen, and someone, it sounded like Mary, was coughing. It was throaty and deep, a real smoker's cough. "Now, get up and I shall make us breakfast. Then we'll leave these two in peace."

"Fine," Will said with a sigh. He folded back the covers and pulled himself up with a groan. His shoulder hadn't gotten any better overnight. If anything it felt worse, inflamed and tender, and when he pressed it lightly the pain made him wince. 

"Don't do that," Hannibal said. "Doctor's orders." He left the room, and Will heard his cheerful hello, and Mary's low reply. 

Will shuffled into his boots and pulled on his sweater. He gave a last look around their little room. He wouldn't go so far as to call it a sanctuary, but it'd been a sort of home for a few days.

He shook his head. It still didn't seem real, and it wouldn't become real unless they came up with a plan. He reached into his pocket and took out the one remaining fragment of his old life, his wallet. The leather was still damp and the assorted receipts and cash inside were mashed and mangled together, but his cards were all still there. He had access to all his money, in theory. But if Jack had any sense he'd have frozen Will's accounts immediately after his disappearance. And if he hadn't, Prunell would've surely insisted on it. 

Out in the kitchen, Hannibal had persuaded Mary to sit, and was breaking eggs into the skillet. He laid strips of pink bacon next to them and the scent soon rose to fill the room. 

Will sat at the table with Mary and they drank coffee in silence. Her colour looked better today, and she seemed, if not exactly happier, somehow lighter. 

"You going, then?" Mary said, flicking the tip of her cigarette against the ashtray.

"As soon as we've eaten," Hannibal said, from the stove. He gave Will a smile over his shoulder, and damned if he didn't look excited. Outside, the wind howled. 

"How're you feeling?" Will asked quietly. 

Mary shrugged. "Not bad." She glanced over her shoulder at Hannibal. "This one here said I could up my dose to double what I took." 

"It's perfectly safe," Hannibal said, in answer to Will's look. "Mary would've found that out herself if she'd visited her doctor more frequently than once a year."

Will guessed she'd decided not to tell Steve about missed her doctor's appointments. But she'd told Hannibal. He was, in his own way, a very good doctor. 

Maybe it was the roaring of the storm, or his immediate and raging hunger when Hannibal placed a plate of food in front of him, but either way, they all missed the sound of a car rolling into the front yard until it was too late. There was a knock at the door, loud and heavy. Hannibal froze for one long second, then stepped quickly away from the sightline afforded by the window. Will rose quickly. 

Through the window, Will saw the dark lines of an unmarked car. It was FBI, no doubt about it. He met Hannibal's eyes and nodded. 

"Who in blue hell's that?" Mary said. "In this weather?"

"Will," said Hannibal, and the tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of Will's neck stand up. Mary looked up at both of them and frowned. 

"Mary, I don't have time to explain, but we need to leave," Will said.

Through the door, a woman's voice called: "FBI. Open the door, please."

Mary's mouth fell open and she looked from them to the door and back again. "It is you they want?" she said, in a low croak. 

Hannibal closed his hand around the breadknife. Will leant down to look Mary in the eye. He laid a hand on her arm, and she stared down at it then back up at him, her mouth still parted. "Lie for us," he said. "You'll never see us again." 

"What did you do?"

Will shook his head. "Tell Steve thanks." 

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mary," Hannibal said, opening the back door with a smile. "I won't forget it." 

Her eyes widened as she took in the breadknife. They had to get out of here, now. Will followed Hannibal out of the back door at a run, rain pelting down on them, and they flung themselves into the truck. It started on the second twist of the ignition. 

"What's the plan?" Hannibal said. The raindrops battered down onto the truck roof like they were trying to bore through the metal. Thunder crashed above them, almost painfully loud. 

Will shoved the truck into gear with a wrenching creak of gears. "Avoid getting caught." he said, and meant it with every sinew. He couldn't feel any pain at all from his shoulder, didn't feel the cold, or the damp, nothing. Adrenaline sparked through him. 

"That will do for now," Hannibal said. 

There was just enough clearance to clear the FBI car. Hannibal slumped down in his seat as they rolled carefully past, serenaded by another crash of thunder. Will swung them out onto the road and then put his foot down. 

Maybe the thunder had been loud enough to disguise the sound of the truck. Maybe Mary had lied for them. Maybe both. But there was no pursuit as they sped away down the narrow rain-lashed road. He kept checking his mirror, expecting to see the pop of lights and a car bearing down on them, but there was nothing. 

After about ten minutes, Hannibal laid the bread knife on the dashboard. 

"What were you planning to do, slice them to death?" Will said. His heart was still lodged somewhere up in his throat, banging away as hard as the thunder above them. 

"If necessary."

Will drove flat out for an hour, taking every side road and back lane he could find, until he was sure they were well away from the coast. Dense scrub gave way to farmland dotted with barns and houses. Finally, on an empty two-lane road, Will pulled onto the strip of rutted mud at the roadside and shut down the engine. They were at the edge of a field. It'd been planted with wheat, and the young shoots were livid lime green against the dirt. 

"We're low on gas, and we need food and water," Will said. 

"We also need to leave the country," Hannibal said. 

He sounded far too happy, and Will gritted his teeth. "That hadn't escaped me. But we can't walk to the damn border." He took his wallet from his pocket and peeled open the two twenty dollar bills in there. They were still a damp mass. He laid them out on the dash. 

"That will help," Hannibal said. "For now, at least. Your cards will be unusable though. Prurnell will have seen to that. But you need not worry about money. I have resources to spare."

"Can you access them?"

"Easily," Hannibal said. "Now that we have cash for gas."

Will rubbed his eyes, almost sobbing with relief. The adrenaline was wearing off, and his shoulder was a spiky mass of pain. A headache was beginning behind his eyes and for a moment he wanted to scream. He hated that he'd been hoping for Hannibal to say something like that. Hoping, if he were honest, that Hannibal would have a plan, and would sort out this whole mess. 

"Would you like me to drive?" Hannibal said, and without waiting for an answer he was already climbing out of his side of the car. Will swapped places with him and sagged back with relief onto the ripped vinyl passenger seat. Hannibal got the truck roaring into life then pulled away.

"So where are your 'resources'?" Will said after a little while. The cab had grown warm, and he felt sleep stealing up on him. Hannibal drove like he did everything else, with seemingly little effort and with meticulous care. They passed few other vehicles. 

Will flipped the radio on, and a staticky FM burble poured out. Weather, news, nothing about a state-wide manhunt. Had Jack managed somehow to keep this entirely under wraps? The whole fake-an-escape plan had been so thin, and had created such a mess, that perhaps Prunell had suppressed it out of sheer force of embarrassment. 

Hannibal looked over at him with a soft fond glance. "I bought a barn near Dover a few years ago, before I left. It has nothing in it but farm equipment. But buried underneath the farm equipment there's a strongbox with everything we need." 

"Even passports?" 

Hannibal didn't answer at first, just fixed his eyes on the road ahead. "Even passports."

He must've arranged that back when Hannibal had believed Will would vanish with him. Well, he hadn't been wrong, there'd just been a delay. 

"Will there be a passport for Abigail waiting in that strongbox?" Will said. 

The words dropped into the fragile calm of the cabin like pebbles into a pond. Will could feel the ripples of tension they created, the slight stiffening of Hannibal's shoulders. He was glad of it. They needed to talk about her at some point. Or rather, Will needed to talk about her. About what her life and death meant to Hannibal. If they'd meant anything at all. 

Hannibal nodded, and kept his gaze focused on the road ahead. "That's a conversation for another time, Will. You should get some sleep. We've a long drive ahead of us. We're lucky that Steve put some gas in the tank."

"We should wire them some money," Will said, already on the edge of sleep. 

"I had thought the same thing myself." 

Will leaned back and closed his eyes, rocked by the motion of the cab. "When we're safe."


	4. Chapter 4

"You have a choice between a croissant and an apple danish."

Hannibal had brought coffee too, carrying two cups across the forecourt in a cardboard tray. In his thick sweater and a pair of Steve's old work trousers, walking slowly to guard his stomach wound, he cut no figure at all. He needed no art to blend in with their dowdy surroundings.

Will took the apple danish. It wasn't fresh but at least it was edible. He washed it down with coffee, and felt, if not better, at least slightly more human.

Hannibal handed him the change from his two twenties. It came to seventeen cents. "You didn't have to give me this back," Will said, staring at it.

"It's all you have at the moment," Hannibal said cheerily, as he turned the ignition. He steered them out of the gas station and onto the highway.

Will leaned his forehead against the window and watched the road roll past. "That makes me reliant on you.”

"Yes," Hannibal said. "You can, you know."

"I can what?"

"Rely on me," Hannibal said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

They turned off the interstate a couple of hours later, and headed towards Dover. Hannibal took a succession of smaller and smaller roads. The countryside that rolled past was dun coloured and flat, and here and there he caught glimpses of steel-grey water. They passed through a tiny beat-up looking town and turned off onto a narrow road that led them past empty floodplains. Finally Hannibal rolled to a stop outside a small barn. Its walls and roof were rusted corrugated metal, and it looked like it'd blow over in a strong breeze. The doors were padlocked.

Will unfolded himself carefully and stepped out into cold damp air. It smelled of vegetation and standing water.

"Where'd you leave the key?" Will said.

"I have a hiding place around the back," Hannibal said, and disappeared for a minute. He reappeared and unlocked the doors. They groaned as they opened. "Come in," Hannibal said, over his shoulder.

Will stepped warily over the threshold, remembering the last time he'd walked into one of Hannibal's shacks. He half expected to see a polished operating table or a row of cleavers. A bandsaw and meat hooks. To his relief there was just an ancient tractor squatting on the concrete floor. The far wall was covered in sagging wooden shelves, and they held a bewildering number of old jars and cans, all full of nails and bolts and ancient engine parts. Hannibal walked over to one and tipped out its contents onto a scarred wooden workbench.

"What are you looking for?" Will said.

Hannibal held something up with a grin. It was a spark plug. "The last of its type. The tractor won't move without it."

Will watched as Hannibal neatly and quickly opened the engine housing and fitted it, then pulled himself slowly up into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. It took a few turns, then blasted into life. Hannibal steered it outside. It had been hiding a steel drain cover, Will realised. Hannibal came back in and levered it up smartly with a crowbar that he took from a hook on the wall, and Will helped him shift the cover.

Inside were three black flight cases. Each held a full change of clothes and a wallet containing a passport, a credit card, and cash.

"This one is for you," Hannibal said.

"What will you do with the other?"

It was obviously meant for Abigail. Hannibal gave him an indecipherable look. "I'll take the documents. We can't risk them being found. There's no point taking anything else."

It was packed with clothes in her size, and a toiletry bag. Folded on top of it was a blue silk scarf sprigged with flowers, of the kind she had worn to hide her scar. Will picked it up and it fell through his fingers, almost frictionless. He swallowed tightly, aware of so much he wanted to tell Hannibal, about how Abigail's ghost had trailed him through Florence, and about how he'd finally had to let her go.

Instead he put the scarf back, and dug instead through his own bag, aware of Hannibal watching him. Hannibal had packed a medical kit, of course. He changed the dressing on Will's shoulder quickly and carefully, his touches deft and polite. He caught Will's glance as he worked.

"What?" Will said.

"I have to ask a difficult question." He finished taping the dressing over Will's shoulder wound. "What would you like to do? We have the money, we have means of travel. We need to make a decision."

Will didn't miss all those 'we's'. "Here, let me," Will said, as Hannibal finished with Will and began to unwind his own bandage. They were heavily stained with blood, but wound looked clean. "It looks okay,” he said, peering at the red open mouth of the gunshot.

"I've always been a good healer," Hannibal said.

"You'd have to be, the amount of trouble you get yourself into," Will said.

"There's always trouble to be had. Trouble keeps us on our toes."

"Is that right? I'd like to sit down for a change.”

He noticed the way Hannibal's muscles twitched as Will's fingertips brushed his naked skin. Will stared for a moment at this uncontrolled reaction, shocked at the electric reaction it roused in him. He quickly finished winding the bandage around Hannibal's waist and tucked in the ends neatly.

"I can help you sit down, Will," Hannibal said. He slid his arms into a crisp pale blue shirt and began to button it.

"Can you? How do you plan to do that?" Will rooted in his own case and pulled out a clean white shirt and dark blue slacks. He also found a dark brown leather belt, dark brown boots, and a blue sweater that was as soft as baby hair. Underwear, socks, a handkerchief. There was even a bottle of cologne, but he didn't bother with that.

"I have a small house just outside Paris. I bought it twenty years ago, just before I came to Baltimore. I'm certain it's secure and safe." He pulled on clean clothes as he talked, not looking at Will. Pants, socks, sweater, jacket and polished black leather boots. He kept his gaze turned away. "I propose we stay there for a while until the heat's died down."

"You know as well as I do that it never will."

"Until we decide to something else, then."

Hannibal gathered up their cast-off clothes and took them outside. Will followed. Hannibal threw a small amount of petrol on them and tossed a match after it. They burned quickly, orange flames like tongues against the soft blue dusk. Will stood at Hannibal's side and watched, feeling like he was watching more than a pile of old clothes go up in flames.

"What would we do there?" he asked.

"Recover. Rest. Think about our future," Hannibal said. "The house has a lake in the grounds," he added, as if that might sway it for Will.

Will couldn't find words at first, but as Hannibal turned to go back inside, he put his hand on Hannibal's arm. He found himself gripping more tightly than he'd intended, and made himself loosen his hand. "Yes," he said. "Yeah. Okay. Let's do that, to start with.”

*

They drove to Philadelphia and ditched the truck at the airport.

"It's a risk, but then everything is a risk," Hannibal said. "Nothing is risk free."

Will didn't disagree. "If no one's tracked us this far, it'll take a long time for anyone to notice the truck's been dumped," Will said. "Long enough for us to get to France."

The sky was grey and was spitting flecks of ice in their faces, as if it just couldn't help but give them one last taste of winter. Will gave the truck, Steve's truck, one last look as he walked away. It looked forlorn, stranded in a sea of silver grey Hondas and Fords. Steve and Mary could've sold it, maybe made some extra cash. He hoped they were okay. At some point this truck would get tracked back to them, and there might be trouble then. He sighed and hurried to catch Hannibal, who was moving quickly across the parking lot.

Hannibal strode confidently up to the Air France desk. His new clothes lent him an air of quiet taste and wealth. He charmed a string of smiles out of the young man at the desk, ambushing him with fluent French that Will could barely follow.

Will stood at his side and waited for the young man to discover who they were, and when it didn't happen, when instead the man slid their tickets and passports over the counter with a smile, Will felt his knees weaken. He became afraid that he'd just fall down, right there. He made his way to a nearby bench and sat down.

"That was easy, wasn't it?" Hannibal said, coming to sit at his side. He tucked their tickets away and handed Will his passport.

"Is this real?" Will said. He covered his mouth with his hand. He'd been on the run before, had done dangerous and life threatening things before, but nothing like this.

"It may be the realest thing you've ever done," Hannibal said. "Well, apart from one or two other things."

Will drew a deep breath. There was a family across from them: a tired-looking father and three kids, one of whom was a tiny girl with black curls. Her screeches bounced off the walls. "I wanted to do this before, back when you asked me the first time.”

Saying those words out loud stole all his remaining breath. This was all real, this was happening right now, he and Hannibal were running, and they were together.

“It wouldn’t have worked," Hannibal said. His voice was low, pitched only for Will. “You weren't ready." He paused, then looked down at his neatly clasped hands. "Nor was I."

Hearing him say it was unnerving. What else had Hannibal figured out while he was in jail? It took a while for the shaking, weak-at-the-knees feeling to subside. Hannibal sat next to him, undemanding and mercifully silent. Finally Will drew another deep breath. "Let's check in."

"No going back after that," Hannibal said, giving him a searching look. "If they recognise us, that's it."

"We have to do it sooner or later." Elation and terror were a heady mixture, it turned out.

"Then let's get it over with."

They checked in at a small terminal, and headed towards security and passport control. The line moved simultaneously too quickly and agonisingly slowly. He watched Hannibal take off his belt and shoes, watched him walk through the barrier and collect them, took his own belt off with numb fingers.

They sailed through passport control. A middle aged woman sat at the desk, and she gave each of their passports no more than a cursory glance. She looked them both in the eye, unsmiling, and waved them through.

Will's passport had a picture of him that seemed to be taken from his FBI ID badge, coupled to the name, 'Peter Lucas'.

Hannibal picked the most pretentious food outlet in the departure lounge, something calling itself La Pomme Blanche. Somehow, in the midst of the acres of strip lighting and stainless steel benches, it managed to give off the impression of being candle-lit. Hannibal ordered veal, and Will ordered trout.

"It's not fresh," Will said, when it came.

"It's not a patch on what you could catch and cook yourself."

"How would you know?" Will said. "I've never cooked for you."

Hannibal gave him a soft look. "But you will."

Will broke his gaze away and fixed it on something safer, like the half eaten fish. But he couldn't really kid himself for much longer. All their discussions had been carefully couched in the platonic, but he knew that Hannibal was in love with him. Will had chosen to run away with him, and by doing it he was feeding that love, letting it grow.

Will hadn't been in love with Molly. He'd known that because… because. Because he loved Hannibal. Admitting it made his stomach lurch. Will's particular curse had always been to see everything in shades of grey. Things had never been as simple as Hannibal bad, Molly good. Molly had offered stability, but Will hadn't given her honesty in return. Not total honesty. He'd been saving himself.

The noise of the restaurant seemed to dip around them and Will's head spun for a few seconds. He laid down his knife and fork. "I'm done," he said, aware of Hannibal's clear gaze on him, watching him, very likely reading every single emotion on his goddamn face.

"Would you like coffee?" Hannibal said calmly.

"Yeah," Will said, wishing he could block out the ridiculous fake golden candlelight for a few seconds.

"We both have some adjusting to do,” Hannibal said carefully.

"What exactly are we adjusting to?"

Hannibal was watching him steadily. “We'll find out, when we're alone."

Unbidden heat rose in Will's face. He felt pinned by Hannibal's gaze, by this situation, and by all the choices that had lead up to this moment. He pushed away from the table. "I need a moment. Excuse me."

"Don't take too long."

The restrooms were deserted and he sagged with relief. The last time he'd had even a second alone was… he couldn't even remember but it felt like weeks. A few minutes away from Hannibal would do him good, give his brain space to process his wildly spinning thoughts.

He used the facilities and washed his hands and face in the sink, splashing cold water onto his eyes. It felt like a blessing, and he lingered longer than he knew was safe.

Then he realised there was someone standing near the door. Looking up, he saw a man with close cropped white hair, flat on top like a marine. He was stocky but fit, back held with a straightness put there by a drill sergeant forty years ago. He was staring at Will, mouth open.

"You're Will Graham," the man said. "Will Graham," he repeated, when Will just stared.

Will didn't nod, and didn't give away a trace of shock even though his heart had just decided to double its pace. "I don't know who that is," he said. Plant a seed of doubt, it might just carry him through this. "But I'm not him."

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly questioning himself. But then he shook his head. "I sat in on one of your classes a few years back, at Quantico."

"You're mistaken." Fuck. He made to leave but the guy didn't move.

Instead he creased his face up in confusion, but at least he wasn't looking actively suspicious. Yet. "You look just like him. There was a report on the TV. You… He disappeared when Lecter did, last week."

Hannibal chose that moment to open the door. He paused, took in the scene, and closed it silently behind himself.

The man turned, following Will's gaze. "Oh, Christ. Hannibal the Cannibal."

"Hello," said Hannibal, and smiled.

What followed was a blur of motion. Hannibal reached out with one hand to grab the man's arm just as the man attempted to barge past and out the door. He swung the man round with raw strength and brought him into an embrace, chest to chest. He brought his other hand up, steadied himself, and gave the man's neck a swift cruel twist. 

"Nhhhhhhggh," said the man. The pop of his broken neck bones echoed off the tiled walls. He flopped against Hannibal, who grunted slightly in an effort to keep him upright. 

Will realised his mouth was hanging open. The whole thing had taken about five seconds.

"A little help, Will?" Hannibal said. "Please?" 

Will blinked hard and staggered back against the sink. He thought for a moment that he might puke. He'd seen far worse things than this, had done far worse things himself to Randall Tier. But seeing Hannibal so casually and efficiently deal with this problem...

A part of Will had liked it. A lot. 

"Will," Hannibal said, briskly.  "You don't have time for the luxury of shock. We can discuss this later, when we're sipping champagne in First Class."

"What shall we do with him?" Will said, stepping forward on knees that felt weak all over again. He didn't want to talk about it. He knew what Hannibal would say; that it'd been necessary, and that he'd done it to protect them both. The worst of it was, Will understood, even welcomed it. 

"There's a cleaner's cupboard just around the corner. We'll walk him there." 

"So, your plan is to just dump him?"

"Have you got a better one?" Hannibal said, with a faint edge of exasperation. 

"Fine." 

They slung an arm around each of their shoulders. From a distance they'd look like they were helping a drunk, or possibly sick friend, as long as no one noticed his oddly flopping neck. The corridor was still empty, but a cleaner's cart stood near the cupboard door, which was wedged open. They hustled him down the corridor and into the room. It was big enough to hide a corpse, at least for a short while. Will hung onto the body while Hannibal pulled aside bales of toilet tissue to make a hiding space. At every second he expected the shocked voice of whoever owned that cart. But no one came. They laid him down and pushed him right to to the back, wedging him in against the wall. Hannibal retrieved the man's wallet and handed it to Will, then covered him up again with the bales, packing them in front of him in a wall. 

Will opened the wallet and looked at the man's ID. This was bad. Dread clawed at his stomach. "If he recognised you, someone else will, and soon." 

The tannoy announcer called their flight. Hannibal and Will stared at each other. Hannibal looked very slightly wild around the eyes, he realised. Will went so far as to take his elbow and guide them away, fast.

Their flight was called again. "I don't want to stay," Will said. He felt like he'd only just realised this. He wanted to be far away from here, from Molly and Jack. To leave Freddie Lounds, Alana and Margot far behind.

"Very well," Hannibal said. "We'll rely on luck. It might even work." 


	5. Chapter 5

Heads down, they walked quickly to the departure gate. Hannibal had paid extra for priority boarding, because of course he had. A steward ushered them into their seats. Will's skin crawled with every wandering glance. Each head turning their way presaged disaster.

"You should try to relax," Hannibal said, after they'd been in the air for a long tense hour. He had been as impassive as a rock all the while, but Will knew his mind must be working overtime, just the same as his own. "I’ll wake you if it seems necessary." 

If they were recognised, Hannibal must mean. "What will you do? Ram them with the beverage cart?" 

"I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that."

Will thought he was far too strung out to sleep, but he closed his eyes obediently and knew nothing else till he opened them again what felt like days later. He straightened, groaning at his stiff neck. Hannibal was sitting impassively, head turned slightly towards him, gaze fixed on the sky through the small window, hands folded in his lap. An empty coffee cup sat on his tray table. They were flying into the dawn, and Will felt the plane lose altitude. 

"Good morning," Hannibal said, quietly, meeting his gaze.

"Did I really sleep so long?" Will croaked. Every fibre of his body felt stiff and achey. 

Hannibal nodded. "Almost six hours."

And Hannibal hadn't. He'd just been sitting at his side, guarding him. Will rubbed sleep from his eyes and gratefully accepted the coffee that Hannibal rang for. He could barely taste it, but it helped. 

"One more hurdle and we've won the race," Hannibal said, quietly. Around them, other passengers were beginning to wake. Call bells began to ping.

"I don't feel like I've won anything," he said. Exhaustion still dragged at him, despite the sleep. It hadn't been enough, not even slightly.

Hannibal's voice was low and raw with honesty. "I do."

Will closed his eyes, unable to process his own reaction to that, a sort of fluttering sick excitement, and wondered again what future they were rushing towards. When the steward came again, this time carrying a tray bearing drinks, Hannibal asked: "Champagne?"

Will took a breath. "First thing in the morning? Sure." Alcohol might help cushion the shock. He needed something. 

Hannibal took two glasses and handed him one, then tapped his glass lightly against Will's. "Here's to Steve and Mary," he said. 

"To them."

Will raised his glass and gulped a mouthful, hoping Mary and Steve were okay and not in trouble. The bubbles stung, but the champagne was clean and crisp, and it worked like a slap on the cheek. He raised his glass once more, silently this time, to no one bothering to dig in that cupboard till the poor guy started to stink. He took a deep swallow. Even though he hadn't touched him, he'd had a hand in his murder, just as much Hannibal. Will gave it three days, tops, before he was found. 72 hours, minus the flight time. 

Outside, the fading moon glowed palely on the edge of the dawn. It was full. He turned to look at Hannibal. "The clock's ticking," he said. 

"I know." Hannibal sounded calm, almost carefree. "I saw the moon once a month, through my skylight. I thought about how the light might be touching your face, wherever you were."

Will could picture the scene, and could conjure the longing that went along with it. It'd been his own for a long time, after all. "It was, some of those times."

The moment grew between them and the thought came to Will, very clearly, _he wishes he could kiss me_. Hannibal looked away first, down into his glass. Will realised his mouth had gone very dry. He swallowed more champagne.

"What happens if we're stopped?" he said quietly, very aware of their neighbours.

"I don't know." Hannibal took another sip of champagne. "It's impossible to plan for, like a birth or a death."

"People do plan for those."

"Never adequately, I find." 

The plane dipped down as if to underline his point, and the cabin address came on. The soft urbane voice of the captain told them that they'd be landing in Paris in thirty minutes time. 

*

It was raining as they touched down. The airport lights glittered in the dark like jewels, and once the plane had stopped their fellow passengers rose as one and began the commotion of fetching down carry-ons and collecting belongings. Will and Hannibal slipped from their seats in the middle of it all and made their way down the aisle to the exit. Will's passport felt too heavy in his damp palm, and he stopped himself flipping through it again. The details were imprinted on his memory and had been from first glance. 

A lumbering, grinding bus dropped them at the arrivals gate. "I'll take the far queue," Will said. He felt a sick twinge of fear and met Hannibal's soft gaze. 

"Don't worry, Will." He reached out to brush Will's hand with his own, a touch so slight that it could almost be accidental. But Will knew it wasn't. "I'll see you on the other side."

"Sure," he said, in a voice that sounded calmer than he'd expected. "See you soon."

He lost sight of Hannibal in the turbulent mass of travellers. A woman in a bright yellow jacket pushed ahead of him, and he let her. The line moved slowly, and he stared at the glowing ochre of her coat and wondered if these might be his last few minutes of freedom. They felt like the closing moments of a convoluted and bizarre dream. 

Over to his left, he caught sight of Hannibal again. He was already handing his passport to the agent. Will looked away with a jerk of his head. The thought of watching what might happen next was unbearable. Then he steeled himself and looked back. Hannibal was strolling away, tucking his passport casually into the inner pocket of his jacket, mingling with the stream of people heading towards baggage control. He cast a look back over his shoulder to Will. Of course, he knew exactly where Will was. 

Will stepped up and handed over his passport to the agent. He was a young man, and the black dense stubble of his beard was starting to show through, even this early in the morning. The agent looked him in the eyes, then down to his passport, then back up again. He folded it shut and handed it back silently. 

Hannibal was waiting for him, and they walked quickly through the arrivals lounge, side by side. Will's knees still felt weak, partly from fear, partly from six hours sleeping upright, but he forced them to move. Hannibal steered them over to a bench near a car rental booth. 

"This won't take long," Hannibal said, moving off. 

"Wait," Will said, reaching out to catch Hannibal's arm. "I'll do it. I'm far less recognisable than you." 

Hannibal opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, then paused. "You're right, of course. Please choose a Renault."

It took an age, and as he sat on the uncomfortable blue upholstery of the car rental place, watching the agent fill in and check his credit details, he expected the blow at any moment. But it didn't happen, and after twenty minutes he took temporary ownership of a silver Renault hatchback. 

Hannibal was sitting on the bench, as mild as a lamb, with a paper bag on the seat next to him. He smiled when he saw Will approach and stood slowly. His skin had taken on an unpleasant pallor.

"I've acquired coffee and food for us," he said, in greeting. 

"And I've gotten us a car." He held up the keys. 

The rain was lashing across the parking lot as they left the terminal, pelting down as if the storm had followed them straight across the Atlantic. Good weather to get lost in. It would wash away their tracks. 

 

*

Hannibal insisted on driving. 

"I know the roads," he said. "It will be far quicker." 

"The damn car has a sat nav," Will pointed out. 

But Hannibal ignored him. He steered them out of Paris through traffic that was beginning to jump, fortunately with people heading into rather than out of the city.

"They'll find him soon," Will said, when they'd hit a quieter stretch of road. They were seven miles out from the city, now, and green spaces had started to replace the tenements and warehouses of the outskirts. Then suddenly the city was gone as if a line had been drawn, and they were in open countryside.

"Our unfortunate restroom friend? Yes, I'm afraid so. But we may have a few days grace." 

"Jack's not stupid, he'll know it's us. The guy was connected to me through Quantico. He'll work out the route we took. He'll find us." 

"Then we'll keep moving," Hannibal said lightly. 

"How about we just hide better?" Will said. 

Hannibal gave him a thoughtful glance. Finally, after an age of driving, he turned left onto a narrow road, thickly hedged on each side. Well maintained stone houses were dotted along it, peeking out from behind tended shrubs and immaculate stone walls. Will guessed that they'd once been farm workers' houses and now belonged to well-heeled Parisians. 

Hannibal drove a little further then pulled up outside a pair of tall wooden gates set in a brick wall. They were painted a modern, tasteful grey green. "We're here."

He left the car and took a key from a hidden nook. The gates swung open smoothly to reveal a gravel drive leading to a long low redbrick building. It had a tall square tower at one end, and was clearly very old, from the look of the crooked roof and tiny windows. Will stared for a moment, then awkwardly shifted into the driver's seat and steered the car in. Hannibal locked the gates behind them. They shut with a thunk. 

"What was this place?" Will asked, stepping out into the cool damp air.

"It was a nunnery," Hannibal said. "Don't worry, I didn't throw them out. They left of their own accord at some point in the fifties. That's when my uncle bought it." 

"Robertus?" Will said. He knew little of Hannibal's family, and wanted to learn more. 

"Yes. It was before he met my aunt, Murasaki. He fancied himself a country squire, so she used to tell me." 

"Used to?" he said, following Hannibal up the path to the door. It was set into an arched doorway, and its thick oak planks were studded with iron bolts. It looked original. 

"As far as I know, they're still alive," Hannibal said, glancing over his shoulder at Will as he unlocked the door. He smiled, and Will saw then how tired he was. His skin looked papery and rough. "We've lost touch."

The house smelled of old brick and old wood. The floors were oak boards and the walls were white, in a stern ascetic style that Will instantly felt at home in. He followed Hannibal down a hallway to the vast kitchen. Hannibal dumped the keys down on the long kitchen table and turned to Will. 

"Now," he said, gently, advancing on him, edging him towards one of the wooden kitchen chairs. There were enough for a whole sisterhood of nuns. "Sit."

Will stared at him but obeyed gratefully. He realised he was somewhere beyond exhaustion now. Hannibal left briefly and came back carrying a medical bag. "Hannibal, don't. Do this tomorrow." 

"I've done far more complex tasks than this on far less sleep," Hannibal said. He dug in his bag and laid out sutures, needles, disinfectant, and anesthetics.

"You need help more than me," Will said. "You're exhausted."

"I'll be fine. And I can't bear to leave your face as it is any longer." He busied himself with his equipment. "It gives me almost physical pain to see your features marred."

"Marred by someone else, you mean," said Will. 

Hannibal glanced at his forehead, gaze lingering almost lovingly on the scar he'd made. "Yes," he said, simply, and turned back to his task. "Will you let me give you opiates? You'll need them for the pain."

Will stared for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks for asking," he said, as he swallowed down the pills Hannibal handed him. 

Time passed like treacle flowing uphill. He could feel Hannibal's breath on his cheek as he concentrated on the fine stitches. It felt like hours. He liked the proximity. His shoulder hurt more, when Hannibal moved to that, but he leaned into Hannibal's firm hands and found the pain easier to deal with. 

Afterwards, Hannibal made coffee and stitched his own wound, stripped to the waist and silent, perched on the edge of the table. His wound bled a lot, and Will watched the slow syrupy drops of red splatter on the tile floor. There were red smears on Hannibal's pale stomach, all the way from hip to ribs. He sat in a haze of exhaustion and anesthetic, wanting to move but unable to find the energy, until Hannibal took him by the arm and led him upstairs, one hand under his elbow. 

There was a bed, deliciously soft, and clean sheets that smelled of lavender. He sank into oblivion. 

Oblivion was peopled by memories, it turned out. He woke several times in the night, his mind hot with disturbed images and fragments of memories, images of Hannibal, and Molly, and Walter. At one point he woke and saw light under the door, and the shadow of someone there. 

"Hannibal?" he rasped, not sure if he was actually awake. The shadow moved and the light flicked off. 

He woke again in the morning to the sound of birds singing. Morning, which meant he'd slept almost for a full day. As sleep ebbed he stitched the past few days back together, staring up at the white ceiling. He rubbed at his eyes and touched his cheek, tracing the spine of tiny neat stitches Hannibal had put there. They'd killed a man. 

He swung his feet out of bed and found pair of slippers waiting for him. The hook on the back of the door held a green cotton robe, of exactly the kind he'd choose himself. He slipped it on and shuffled out into the corridor. The floorboards creaked softly as he walked past several closed doors, but that was the only sound. After a few slow steps he stopped and listened, but couldn't hear any movement, no breathing, no gurgling pipes. Hannibal must be behind one of these doors, but he couldn't tell which one. 

He descended the wide wooden staircase, the banister under his hand smooth polished wood. Hannibal's medical bag was gone from the kitchen. There was no sign of him. No dishes on the drainer, no just-used plate or knife. Will opened the fridge. It was stocked with eggs, cheese, fresh meat and vegetables. He stood and stared at it for a long moment. 

"Chiyoh?" he said, experimentally. He turned, expecting to see her severe outline in the doorway, gun poised. But she wasn't there. 

Either Hannibal had a helper, or he had left the house yesterday to shop, which was entirely possible. Will closed the fridge with a deep sense of disquiet, and set about making coffee. 

He drank it sitting at one end of the vast table. Around him, the house was full of shadows even in daylight, and what little sun there was seemed to fight its way in through the windows. Out by the pantry there was another corridor, with doors leading off. One of them, a narrow low oak door, was bolted. There were scars around the lock as if someone had hacked at it, but they weren't fresh. 

There were clothes for him. He found them after he'd showered, just a few well made garments, again the sort of thing he'd almost choose for himself. Almost but not quite. His own taste filtered through Hannibal's. He dressed slowly, careful of his wounds, and stepped back out into the silent corridor.


End file.
